Un Jour Dans La Vie

A few days have passed since I met Teresa and after the disheartening results of our meet, I ran to comfort, the bottom of a bottle of absinthe. I knew that it wouldn’t help me get over what happened but it was something.

“I can’t see reality for what it is through the dark glass at the bottom of a bottle. If I can’t see the problems they may find a way of sorting themselves out, or at the very least stay out of my sight,” I would reassure myself time after time and bar after bar.

Hours passed and I was still lurking around the dingiest bars in the underbelly of Paris. The seedy part no one talked about and few ventured into. More often than not I’d spend my time drinking and shouting at the patrons who entered. Sometimes they were shouts of greetings and kind things of the sort or they were vulgar and disrespectful profanities, the latter becoming all the more frequent with every swig. I looked at the bartender who was mumbling hollow words my way and said, “I’m a magician, you know?”

“Oh, is that so?” the bartender said condescendingly.

“Yes. I-I I have this trick where I can uhh… make everyone who loves me disa-a-appear.” I said with apparent signs of extreme intoxication.

“I wish you could make yourself disappear from my bar. Think you can pull that one off magic boy? Or are you going to fail at that?” the bartender said cynically with a hearty laugh as he wiped the mugs clean.

This made me very cross and despite normally being somewhat timid; a mixture of mood, drinks and the events that transpired a couple days before left me rather malicious just as I was prepping for a strike someone grabbed my arm and asked me what I was thinking. Not recognizing the voice I turned my barstool about three quarters of a full turn and started to slur hateful things their direction – or at least what I thought was their direction. I went on and on and the man was standing there, arms crossed over and foot tapping on the floor. Impatient it seemed. “You seem impatient. Why? Do you have something to say?” I asked.

“It would seem that you’ve had far too much to drink and maybe you should cool yourself with both the drinking and the temper,” The mysterious voice suggested. “Never know when your drunken mouth will get you in more trouble than you can handle all by yourself. And if you make a tendency to say these things to people who are your friends, well, you probably will be left to fend for yourself if – or when – those times come.”

I was baffled and was having a hard time making out what he was saying and doing. Was he warning me or threatening me? And who is he? I couldn’t figure it out. The voice sounded familiar but the man himself seemed to calm to be him – and if it was him I should have more important things to be worrying about than who it was. I sat there shaking my head and watching the smoke spiral around the room, in the air, like a Van Gogh night sky painting. I felt my eyelids were beginning to weigh heavily but there wasn’t much I could do to hold them open. I felt something wet on my pants and I looked down to see what it was. I spilled my drink and my hands were violently shaking. I finish off my drink and go sit at a booth in the far back of the bar.

There was a painting by Van Gogh called ‘The Night Café’ and this bar seemed to fit it to a tee – maybe a little less bright though. The atmosphere of it matched this one perfectly. This was where one could come have a drink and in a moment’s notice could ruin his or her entire life. Some could say all bars hold that certain aesthetic, and that is true, but few have this sent of dread, of discomfort and this sense of abandonment. The pool table hand a lamp dangling above it at the back of the room with a forest green glass lamp cover over it – covered in dirt. It gave off a minimal amount of light and somehow managed to be the second largest source of light in the entire bar, second only to the two bulbs hanging, barely, from above the bartender.

I looked at the bartender who still harbored a scowl look across his face. I frustrated him, no debating that, and it didn’t seem like anything was set to alleviate that tension. “Either buy something or get out,” he said. If there was any doubt that the frustration would subside and I could ride out the night in peace, that doubt was surely diminished with that bitter statement. Such hostility in his voice, not to say it wasn’t well enough warranted.

I smiled and asked for a beer. Not that I wanted it, I was already feeling nauseous, but I wanted to be picky and find any reason to stick around here, rustle his feathers. He grinded his teeth at my request and slid under the counter to pull out a bottle of beer. I didn’t specify what kind so I imagined it would be the most bitter and repulsive beer in his arsenal. Not like that’ll matter much seeing as how drunk I was. He walked over and slammed my beer on the table. He didn’t say a word. My eyes felt heavy again and before I knew it my head smashed on the table.

The sunlight was breaking through the dirty old windows. I could see the specks of dust shuffling through the air in the light. When I was a kid this fascinated me to no end. It was magic as far as I knew. My eyes burned and body felt swollen. I was having a hard time remembering the things that happened last night. I few cycles around the room with my eyes and I was able to piece together what happened but it was all so hazy and patchy. I saw the bartender and boy his face told a story I didn’t even want to remember. The beet red emulating from his crusty old skin was enough to tell me to hightail it out of there. And so I did.

I stumbled out of the bar in a hot minute and onto the streets I was again. Walking down the roads trying my hardest to maintain some composure, try to be inconspicuous. The last thing I needed was for the officers to find me in this state and get me for public intoxication. I wasn’t looking forward to that. I wasn’t even sure where I was at – I had a general idea but nothing to go on. That was until I saw the windmill above the Moulin Rouge. Then I knew where I was and I remembered that there was a ballet I was interested in seeing this afternoon and since it was noon I figured I’d better be getting there soon and that wasn’t going to be too hard since it was quite close.

The spring air was comforting and the speckles of heat warmed my skin. The bar I was lurking in seemed to be an ice cube so I was thawing out - thawing out of this bitter cold and this equally bitter intoxication. Here I was the theatre where the ballet was being held. I saw a line waiting to get in there and I thought this was perfect; a crowd to blend with. I stand in line and within minutes the doors open and the small group of people who were going to see the ballet started to either buy or hand a ticket into the booth. I purchased one and took a seat and snuggled up in the chairs. “Fuck me,” I mumbled, “it’s even colder in here than it was in the bar. I can barely see from here I need to get closer to the stage if I’m going to see anything.”

“Mr. Renoir, I didn’t know you fancied the ballet,” a male voice from behind me exclaimed!

I knew that voice – that graceful, gentleman like voice. And sure it enough I was right. It was Mr. Hemmingway. I stood up and gave the dastardly devil a welcome handshake. “How have you been,” I asked, “haven’t seen you since before I was released from the hospital.”

“I’ve been alright,” Charles said while lighting his pipe, “quite alright indeed. Taking a look at you and judging by your foul stench, and I mean no offense, I’d say you’re quite the contrary.”

This was true, since the brushing with Teresa, I felt so uninspired in taking even the most basic interest in such trivial things like hygiene. Here I was, a gentleman in my mid-20’s looking like I was not a day younger than 40. Hemmingway was cruel to me but this wasn’t out of disrespect. There was mutual respect between us, it wasn’t always shown amongst the cynicism and criticisms, but it was there.

“Well I must go,” Hemmingway whispered, “I have a date with me and I am not a fan of keeping wet women waiting.” He winked, grinned and walked away humming a tune.

I heard some commotion about ten minutes into the dance. Whatever it was sounded clumsy and heavy. Something tumbling or being dragged I assumed. I didn’t have the will to divert my eyes to the ruckus. Maybe now, in retrospect, I should have. It was Teresa, struggling to bring her easel, canvasses and paints with her down the aisle to paint the ballet dancers. My heart lit, my skin was practically glowing and I was alive with a breath of fresh air. It was a second chance for me.

“I see you’re a fan of ballet dancers. Are you familiar with the paintings of Edgar Degas?” I inquired.

“Yes, I am familiar with his work. His ability to capture movements in the most natural forms always interested me, as well as his persistence in capturing the woman in her natural states, not glorified or objectified, just as they are; naturally.” She said, not aware of whom I was.

“How’d I know you’d have something to say along those lines?”

I saw a half smile come across her face and she looked up at me blankly for a moment. She forgot my name I thought.

“Mr. Renoir, is it?”

“No, I guess that wasn’t it. Then why the blank face?” I wondered.

“Yes, that’s what I go by.”

We spent time discussing things such as painting and ballet. Two things that we had a common interest in. We continued to watch the ballet until the show was over and we took off. we bumped into Hemmingway saying goodbye to who he referred to as a ‘colleague of the arts’ and asked who is this pretty doll I was with. I tried to introduce Teresa but was quickly cut off by her insistence of introducing herself. This attitude, a flaring attitude only intrigued me even more so than I already was, if that wasn’t enough already.

“Are you from here? I asked. “You don’t seem to have that posh Parisian attitude that most of the women have.”

“I am from here. I was born here. The reason for that lack of posh attitude is because I am my own person. You seem to have a rather narrow view of the world at large. You seem to have an attitude of people based on one or two encounters and generalize your entire view based on that alone.” Teresa said very condescendingly.

“Hey now doll, you’re doing the exact same thing you’re accusing me of!”

“Ha-ha,” Teresa chuckled, “it’s an example darling. I did it to prove a point, and I am assuming my point was made in full.” She said as she skipped some rocks off of a pond they were sitting at.

We conversed on well into the night where we fell asleep in a park lawn. The sounds of ducks quacking, people clamoring about as well as the relentless rising sunlight were all less than caring alarms for us to wake up to. We wiped the grass off of us and go out for a quick cup of coffee and some croissants. After breakfast, seeing as how well the night prior went I tried again to get her phone number and unlike the last attempt she was more than delighted to give it to me.

Over the next week I spent my time painting and catching up with old friends; primarily Pierre and Claire. We all would have meet ups with Hemmingway dropping in and out when needed, but I was closer to these two than I was Hemmingway and I felt that I had already caught up enough with Hemmingway. There was also that person talking to me in the bar last week that was bothering me. I had to have been hearing things… right?

I was going on and on, without end, talking about Teresa to Claire and Pierre. They were interested in meeting her and were glad to see that I was feeling good again. This was surprising for Claire. I was hesitant of even telling her. I wasn’t looking to be on the receiving end of her rage and jealousy. And as far as rage went there was no doubt I had it coming from the events that led up to my attempted suicide. As far as the jealousy went though… maybe I fabricated a lot of the feelings I thought she had for me – to better my ego. I will never know though. After his brush with near death they were unsure if I’d ever return to normal, but I did and even surpassed it.

Pierre suggested that we have another exhibition in a loft he was renting downtown. This was I needed. I had been working on paintings at a frantic pace since meeting Teresa and I needed to show my work and more importantly sell them. I agreed and had an idea. I noticed that Teresa’s paintings were dripping with the techniques of impressionism and I thought it’d be a great idea if we invited her to the exhibition to the show. The young group of impressionists and post impressionists, when presented this idea were unsure. We were a small band of close friends. To bring someone new, let alone someone who only one of them knew seemed to be a bad idea. We took a vote and I was nervous about this. Sweating in fear that my proposal would be overruled, it was needless worry though; we agreed and I rushed to the telephone to give her a call.

She was on board with the idea and she came by the loft to hang some of her work. The next day we spent our time working on brochures and hanging the paintings. Teresa’s presence was well received and she was a very enjoyable character to have along. On our downtime, Pierre and Claire would talk to Teresa about how I and she met and she told them, although at the time I was unaware. If I knew she was going to be asked that I would’ve taken precautions to prevent her from saying anything. I went on through the day, oblivious to their knowledge of this. I knew something was wrong with them but I hadn’t any clue as to what that something was. Later on Pierre asked if he could have an audience with me. So we, along with Claire went into a back room.

“A BROTHEL? WHY?” Pierre and Claire asked in unison.

“Why not?” I snapped back. “It was a place where I could partake in some less than admirable vices without growing a bond of love. I couldn’t afford that after the events that transpired with Serena. I needed to get my fix without the fears of repeating all of the pain. How did you find out about this?”

“How do you think, Branden? Teresa explained it to us.” Pierre said with Claire nodding her head.
“She did tell you that she doesn’t work there right?” I asked.

We bickered back and forth for over an hour. I explained to them that it helped me deal with things outside of drugs and alcohol, which of course was involved but they didn’t know that and what didn’t know didn’t hurt them. Despite their concerns with the many problems that this could bring, they understood that I’d been through a lot over the year. And with some work on my end, they understood and eventually let it go.

“I will be returning there, but not as a guest, a customer, but rather a friend of a girl who helped me with problems when I had nothing left.” I said. “There’s someone there that helped me and I did the same for her, regardless if she was willing to realize it. She was one of those people that I was able to confide in; someone who was there a scale of humanity; not a shrink, not a professional. Someone who hurt like I hurt but didn’t have the connections that made me disconnect from everyone I cared about. Think about it did I ever confide in any of my friends that were close to me unless it was in an emotional downpour, an overload of feelings? Of course not, and I never will.”

A solemn tone whisked across them and they all stood there, awkwardly and quietly. They understood what I was saying and accepted it. It was one of those moments when the silence speaks louder and more coherently than any words ever could. Pierre and Claire left to go see the gallery and how everything’s been going. I lit a cigarette and stood in the empty room staring at the red curtains. Moments later I heard the small clamor of heels walking on the black and white checkered tile behind me. In comes Teresa checking up on me to see what was going on. But in my typical fashion I shrugged it off and walked with her into the gallery. Not to make myself seem like a tough guy, but because that I wanted to keep her out of as much of my problems as possible.

“We’ll be making great profits here, my fellow friends and colleagues! I want to make a toast; a toast to good health, good friends and a long life of happiness of successes for everyone here.” Hemmingway announced just as the new couple walked into the gallery. “Oh, capital of you two to join us! Also I would like to make a toast to Teresa and Branden on their new found happiness. May it blossom and flourish for the rest of your lives.” Hemmingway shouted as he lifted his wine glass at everyone.

The exhibit came and went as just as Hemmingway predicted, it was a groundbreaking success. Everyone sold at least three fourths of their paintings and the event went smooth and without chaos or any ill doing. I and Teresa spent a lot of time together after the exhibition. We decided to take a trip down to Aix-En-Provence, a city in the south of France. There they visit the grave and studio of the late French Impressionist painter, Paul Cezanne. After doing that the spend time indulging in wine and breads. The romanticism of our young relationship was still in full bloom and our almost childlike actions certainly showed this.

Back in Paris Hemmingway, Pierre and Claire spent a lot of time at posh parties. The attention of the last exhibition they hosted caught the attention of the higher Parisian culture. While the group of young impressionists were quite well set off, they were nothing compared to others in the upper class social scene. They were very welcome to the idea of joining in this. The women were easy, the drinks were free and the people were as shallow as the drinks. It was easy to slip into the groove of all this for them.

Teresa and I were in Provence for just short of two months and in that time the communications between the friends in Paris and I shortened with each passing day. The communications at the beginning was frequent. By the end of the two months we’d be lucky to converse if even an hour a week. This was troublesome to me, but I knew that very soon Teresa and I would be heading back to Paris. Back home to our friends.

The train connecting Aix-En-Provence to Paris had just arrived 15 minutes behind schedule. The smoke filled halls of the station stunted the vision of people waiting for their loved ones to step off the train, but it was worth it. Through the smoke Pierre and Claire could see me and Teresa stepping off of the train. We all greeted each other and caught up on the times and what we’ve been doing since our departure.

“Hemmingway wanted us to send you his warmest regards. He is a little busy and was remorseful for his absence.” Claire told me as they were walking to Pierre’s car.

“Let me guess… he’s sitting in bed with a hangover from weeks of drinking on end?” I chuckled.

“Precisely!” Pierre shouted.

Everyone laughed. “Glad to see Hemmingway hasn’t changed a bit. He was always so easy to guess what he’d be doing. Drinking: his one calling.” I said as he laughed holding Teresa’s warm hands.
They all hopped inside of the car and sped off. During the ride Pierre and Claire talked to me and Teresa about their new lifestyle. They wanted us to take part in it - that posh partisan metropolitan life.
“I came from a family that surrounded themselves with rich posh parties. I watched it wrecked them. It transformed them from caring people to the backstabbers and two faced liars many of them came to be. I am okay with parties. I enjoy them. I enjoy the social life, but it is one that comes with an acquired taste that needs to be exercised in moderation. Otherwise you fall victim to the same things you despise.” Teresa said quietly.

When she said that they all agreed that she was correct, moderation was the key. The trick was in the practice. I, of all people, knew of the difficulties of keeping your vices in check. I knew that all too well. Later that night we all got in their nicest clothes, Pierre and Claire had arrangements to meet up at a friend of theirs at a hotel. I was dressed in a black tuxedo, white button up and tie with a top hat. Pierre arrived with him in a black tuxedo and red bow tie. Claire was wearing a dark blue, almost glossy dress and her hair in a high bun. We were all standing around eating and gossiping. The people there greeted each other and hardly said five words before they were off talking to someone else, only to repeat the same thing time after time.

“Have you heard about the man who hung himself in the alleys?” One man asked.

“No, I don’t believe I have,” said the other man.

“He was poor – I didn’t expect you to. The only reason I knew is because my butler told me. Why would I care though? I have the money and that’s all that matters.”

“Oh,” the other man said as he drifted off aimlessly.

There was a prime example of the shallowness I always associated with the upper class. I couldn’t segregate them all to this category – but a lot of them I could.

About 20 minutes have passed and I felt as if I had seen everyone there and talked to them for an eternity. I was worried about Teresa. She was late. I knew she was well known for her bad arrivals, but that didn’t stunt my concern. I’d be standing there, half listening to the next person to come up to me and tell me about their shallow life and looking outside the window, looking for my lover. Person after person arrived to confess their sins to me like I was some priest – a savior of the damned, but no sign of Teresa. Then… BAM! There she was. Finally, she showed up in a golden colored dress. Her hair in curls and white gloves, elbow length. The moonlight was blinding off of the golden dress. I pushed the person whoever was standing there talking to me and headed downstairs and she takes his arm as they walked inside.

She was a beautiful girl. The most beautiful girl I had ever met, but here, at the party, she was just one of them. That was the beauty of these parties for these people. They all looked good, they all knew that. Being among them for too long, one loses the ability to even remember names. They mix up the names and even refer to one another with a wrong name, I was realizing this even after five minutes. It never bothered the people, the beauty of all this for them was the names and ability to identify one another were irrelevant; it was part of the shallow nature of the place, and these parties were flooded with shallow lives and shallow people. The only thing that separated them was how many 0’s were at the end of the numbers of the balances of their bank accounts. The whole scene made me ill. I wasn’t a man who cared about money all too much. I was much more humble – or at least I thought that. Was it that I wasn’t like that? What if I was like them – so disillusioned by money and fame or even just my own ego that I retracted into a state of denial. Was my ego so big that I was going to be busting at the seams with my overly pretentious ego spewing out all over the floor of this place? I forever wondered that.

The days slipped to weeks and weeks on end. The group was eventually slipping more and more into these parties and they were starting to grow on us. Time after time we’d try and remind themselves of the follies of these people, but the drinks were enough to remind us all of why they do this is in the first place, regardless of whether or not anyone actually knows their real names or not. Things got heated over time, with Pierre and Claire especially.

“You’d rather go get drunk to the point of not remembering your own goddamn name, let alone anyone’s name there and fuck every easy broad there than go home and support the people who depended on you. I’d be amazed if your wife hasn’t already figured out what you’re doing and leave you!” Claire snapped at Pierre.

“Oh. You have to bring my family don’t you? Are you aware that Liz has already left me? Why? I don’t know but it wasn’t for the allegations that you are accusing me of! You are the biggest hypocrite I’ve ever met. You sit there on your throne and cast judgment while you have every upper class Parisian going down on that mess of yours. I am sick of you! I am sick of all of this Claire! You’re vindictive and malicious! I am done. I am done with everything!” Pierre said heatedly.

And with that they both informed me that they were resigning from the impressionist group. Hemmingway hasn’t been seen or heard since mine and Teresa’s arrival back in Paris so they decide that they will conclude any business with the group and disband. Teresa says goodbye to Claire & Pierre and lets me say my words.

I took my time to give them both their own personal meeting. I tried to resolve any problems that they had but it was apparent from the start that any attempts were going to be in vain. There was a deep seeded problem that I was unaware about that wasn’t going to be resolved, at least not anytime soon. I said my goodbyes as I watched my friends depart and go their separate ways. Never, to my knowledge to ever meet again. A sense of guilt few upon me, just as it always does when I lose someone. I asked Teresa if I could show her something and we drive to the river where I was going to kill myself.

“…I could’ve prevented it. The two months we were gone I could’ve done something to help them. Maybe we wouldn’t be disbanded,” I said to Teresa. “This river right here. I would be haunted by it, the memories of my dead father, someone who was a mentor to me. I remember I was going to kill myself right here but Claire stopped me. It was hard to live with a ghost of them. They were there, doing what they always did. But there weren’t there and they never would be. She saved me. And now, when it came to me, to save her, I failed. Her and Pierre, they were close. Very close. I don’t know how they’ll go on… if they go on.”

“Awh honey, come here.” Teresa said as she wrapped her arms around me. “Don’t beat yourself up over something that was out of your control. You couldn’t have done anything and don’t ever tell yourself otherwise. Always remember the storms you braved alone before, you’ll never have to do so no more. I am always here for you. I promise.” She said as she gave me a kiss.

A half forced smile came across my face but I felt a little better.

“Come on; let’s go see if we can find a ballet to go catch.” Teresa said.